


great unspeakable

by ghost_suit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-25 22:40:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghost_suit/pseuds/ghost_suit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>post-episode fic for 5x13, The Song Remains the Same. Castiel finds himself in the awkward predicament of sharing the bed with Dean seeing as Sam is 700 feet tall and 600 feet across and requires an entire bed for himself. It's a logistics thing. All gloomier than it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	great unspeakable

Early risers are the first to fall.

\-----

When it started, Castiel had kept Dean Winchester at a distance just as he was intended too. Impersonal. He did so without realizing that they were already too close. It was his undoing; eventually, this angel impersonality worked less and less and he incrementally lost his effectiveness in remaining at an impassive distance. Gradually, every wall he thought had been so permanent and that had made him such a good soldier began to crumble. Each gesture and word that Dean spoke acted as a malignant catalyst throughout his centred being. It shocked him enough so that he had to readapt. And what he was adapting into was not the constitution that befitted a soldier of God.

Affect; in the furious hurt look as Dean realized his first attempt at altering the past to save the future had failed and that his mother was murdered regardless. Castiel was also _affected._ This was achieved by held looks between he and Dean and when Dean held his tongue not because he feared Castiel but because he feared losing him. Affected; when Castiel felt his own hurt when he realized that sometimes Dean held his tongue because he did not believe Castiel was capable of understanding. But he could understand; it was only that he first had to learn. But he’d come to accept that this was a lesson in itself.

Then there was the _rage_ Castiel could see, its relentlessness. It was poisonous, but not entirely detrimental. Dean’s anger accentuated his own and he could sense that there was something useful about that. What he always wondered was how Dean withstood containing his rage when even the way the very idea of it radiated off of him was like facing a flood.

His irritated flippant remarks and lewd jokes. The things that he overenthusiastically invested joy in to the degree of parody; cars, women, rock music. The indignant ingratitude occasionally followed by begrudged respect and acceptance. Sam. All collections that came together to develop a small corner of the image that was Dean. These things that Castiel felt a unexplainable attachment to the collecting of, all the carefully amassed knowledge about the elder Winchester brother. There was no one thing singularly understandable. The only thing that Castiel understood for certain was the sincerity that Dean possessed through it all. And that was enough.

\-----

“Cas, just lay down. You need to rest.”

A tone that left no room for arguing; not forceful, but weary. He felt a brief touch on his forehead, and Dean’s hand through his hair. _Why?_ he wondered but knew better than to ask.

Castiel felt his hand trace after Dean and heard the door close before he could find his voice again to communicate his protest.

\-----

He was becoming weaker. Travelling to 1978 hadn‘t destroyed him or the vessel of Jimmy but it‘d done enough. He honestly _was_ surprised that he’d made it back in one piece. And was honestly surprised that he’d managed to get to the right spot; the spot where the Winchesters could catch him just in case.

His limbs felt heavy. Trying to move took all his effort and even his determination wasn’t enough to muster ever rearranging himself. It was not the hurt that bothered him (or that he could feel it) but rather the disorientation between himself and his vessel. Travelling through time felt as though he was being ripped apart between the two and now he had to stitch everything back together. It would take time.

The brothers hadn’t left him on the bed in a sprawl for long. He heard Sam questioning his position and briefly recalled Dean lifting him and placing him more comfortably. Though, Castiel had felt so numb that this had nothing more than an aesthetic result. But the meaning wasn’t lost.

A brief spat between the brothers followed about who would sleep where with Dean conceding to share the bed with Castiel. As he fell heavily next to him, Castiel heard the mutters of Sam being 700 feet tall and 600 feet across. Another curse followed after Sam restlessly left the hotel in search of air, a walk; to be alone. Castiel would never understand this feeling of aloneness that the younger Winchester craved.

He was left alone with Dean, quiet and tired and the warmth of his body heating the blankets between them.

Not sleeping anymore but still sufficiently encapsulated in his vessel, it was easy to become consumed with thoughts about the man beside him. Like how, each time that they encountered one another he fell victim to the attraction he felt towards the certainty of the mans’ demeanour and course edged way of working through his tasks. Castiel had spent his entire being as a part of a well maintained machine; watching someone so recklessly blunder through that machine with a self-righteous conviction to match was fascinating. They weren’t so different. But the Dean of four, five years ago was not the same Dean as he was now and nor was it the Dean of another four or five years time. He wondered, dangerously, he noted, if it would be the same for him. In time, what would he be? Realizing potential was more humbling than following orders. Potential he hoped that when it came to, when like _Dean_ , he could rise to the occasion and evolve into something more than what he was created to be.

\-----

After Dean fell asleep Castiel remained in his quiet hymn of consciousness.

His eyes remained closed. There was nothing important to look at into the shallow dark of the room but not seeing was not something he’d experienced very often. It unnerved him as much as it was a grim novelty. No part of the body would respond until it was ready too. He would remain in his shuttered dark. It was a reminder of the delicacies of the simple mechanism that was his vessel. The mechanism that was Jimmy Novak.

Castiel had a breaking point. An angel like Michael would not feel this, the way that Castiel could feel this, even if Michael were not in his true vessel. But Castiel was not Michael, something that this very situation proved undoubtedly. If he were to meet Michael, if he made it that far, all the way to the end…there would only be the retribution that Michael saw fit.

Some impatient hum came through his thoughts; he had limits. Sam and Dean had limits; everyone who laid their allegiance to them had their limits and once they’d reached them they were easy targets for angels and demons alike; they died. It was no wonder that their allies were few; they couldn’t guarantee any real chance of survival.

But then, they didn’t really expect to survive.

He flexed his fingers; slowly, everything was coming back.

\-----

Castiel had been caught lying. He said that Anna did not have a point with the idea of killing the Winchester’s parents. However, he knew that before he would have agreed with her. The uncertainty he had now was clouded by his feelings of friendship for Sam. The truth was that she did have a point.

But he had to believe that there were other ways.

The belief that it couldn’t be Anna’s way, or the way of any other angel. Because his Father wouldn’t have wanted his teachings to lead to those types of decisions. This plan…Castiel wondered if calling it a ’plan’ was just a name they’d given to something less determinable. Maybe this ‘plan’ did incorporate free will more than it incorporated faith. They had to make the right decisions for themselves; that was the _plan_. The real test was realizing that there was not such a detailed proof to follow. Like all good teachings, this would be open to _mass misinterpretation_. The last part sounds like Dean.

Their Father could not have his children as they were and not expect them to _not_ rebel. He’d wanted children to teach, not children to nurse. He couldn’t have wanted that; He was so much more encompassing than that.

Or at least, Castiel hoped that this might be the truth of it all.

 _Team free will._ The declaration with its’ lack of finesse had sprung some feeling of…hope and purpose regardless of its’ bleak proclamation. But he could cling onto that. He was glad to if it meant being at Dean’s side.

\-----

Sam had come and then gone again. His restless energy awoke Dean. The only bother it brought Dean was the one of knowing what it was to drift in restlessness through the night. Dean never made a move to take the unoccupied bed.

Dean shifted again beside him and a leg and arm settled against him. Castiel, with the barest of control over the vessel again attempted to edge away in an attempt to give Dean the room he desired. It wasn’t easy on the deeply sloping mattress. By time he did manage to provide space Dean was awake again.

“Doing alright?” Dean asked thickly. Castiel was surprised that he hadn’t only been gruffly ordered off the bed.

“Fine.”

Forcing the words out felt dry in his throat. Dean turned to face Castiel. Staring into the dark shadows were Dean’s eyes should have been was unsettling. But that was only a trick of the light. It was Dean; Castiel knew instinctually and would know anywhere.

“Michael came and used Dad as a vessel. We talked. He‘s an arrogant prick. But that‘s no surprise.”

“Michael’s ego is not unfounded.”

“Whatever. Before we tried to stop my mom from letting us to be born. I told her that…not being born was different from dying. And that we were okay with not being born,” Dean told him. His explanation of events was not making sense. Castiel did not know all of the story; in fact, this was the first he‘d heard of what‘d happened. But then he realized that Dean was thinking about this in particular. This was the part that stood out the most for him and he was sharing it with Castiel because he could not speak to Sam about this. Dean speaking to him in confidence enraptured him.

“But if you weren’t born, someone else would have been. I’ve told you before Dean, all roads lead to the same destination,” Castiel responded lowly. His voice felt thin on his lips.

“Yeah, but it’d be some other jerk-off who had to deal with all of this.”

“But it had to be you.”

Dean didn’t answer after that. Castiel was unsure of how to express his own gratitude for Dean and Dean alone being fated as Michael’s true vessel. He’d unintentionally minced his words again; he‘d made it sound as though Dean had no choice and even if that was the truth that wasn‘t something that Dean would find consoling the way that an angel would have. Given that he wasn’t even sure what he’d meant to say this mistake came as no surprise; he’d only lost control of it. Even without seeing Dean‘s face properly illuminated, Castiel could tell that he’d caused offence.

“It didn’t have to be me. I’m not sold on that the way that you are.”

Those words stung but he gave a curt nod because he understood.

\-----

Castiel stood the moment he was able to. His strength had not returned entirely; he would never regain that strength entirely. A cause for concern he was not sure that the Winchesters understood the severity of. Unintentionally, they took him for granted through their desperation. He locked his knees, still feeling as though he were swaying on the spot.

“Dean, you need to tell me about Michael.”

Something muffled came from under a heavy pillow. Castiel assumed that it was a sound of acknowledgement, however begrudged.

“Dean,” he repeated insistently. It wasn’t because he needed to. There was something in saying Dean’s name that brought comfort in the silent room. Castiel used to feel at peace in silence, but the longer he remained on earth, the more he began to feel uncomfortable in it. The more he discovered that the night was filled with things to fight and absent of things to hold on to.

“I know,” he groaned, tossing the pillow to the edge of the bed. Dean never lingered in sleep for more than a moment. An occupational hazard, he’d said. One both brothers suffered; the moment Sam had gotten up he searched around half-blind for his jeans and muttered that he was going for breakfast. Throughout the night, Castiel suspected that the younger brother had gotten only a few hours of sleep.

He regretted robbing Dean of a few more hours. But he needed to know what had happened. In case there was something the Winchesters wouldn’t have noticed.

Castiel watched Dean wipe the sleep from his eyes and lurch forwards into an upright position, arms slung over his thighs. Looking over, Dean gave a surveying look.

“You look like hell,” he informed plainly.

At his side Castiel felt his arm twitch. Again he was unsure of how to respond to Dean and his grim point blank approach. The human language was something he’d yet to come to grips with. How does one “look like hell”? It didn’t seem something to take lightly.

And his vessel certainly wasn’t taking it lightly. He felt like every limb had some transparency to it, that it was all going to crumple in on himself. He raised a hand to place his fingertips on his temples, trying to check and make sure that everything was staying in.

“Come back to bed,” Dean said, flinging himself back onto the mattress. He propped the remaining pillow up so that he could lean against the headboard. From the side table, he seized the remote and turned on the TV. Immediately the sound of a late-morning game show filled the room. It was quickly cut-off as Dean began searching the channels for something more suitable. He glanced over again to Castiel who hadn’t moved from his place.

“You look like you’re about to fall over; better to fall on a bed than on your ass.”

Without a word, Castiel nodded. He didn’t have to sit with Dean. He could go take Sam’s unoccupied bed. Or take the customary motel chair by the customary motel desk in front of perfectly regular motel curtains thick with dust. But he took Dean’s invitation instead. Gingerly, he joined Dean on the small and uneven bed. This seemed to defy their rule of personal space. The one that Dean had made himself.

Within minutes, Castiel was reminded of how much he didn’t enjoy television; he didn‘t understand it and found it difficult. Though he suspected that Dean didn’t enjoy it either or at least not the variety usually provided at the motels he and his brother stayed in. It was only a distraction. Something to numb the mind. It was like when they were driving without a direction and Dean played his music at ear-shattering decibels. On those occasions Castiel rarely stayed very long but on this occasion he had no choice. He really was incapable of standing on his own two feet.

His mind wandered, unable to follow along with pop culture references on talk shows and unable to discern what was fact or fiction between each program. The news, the movies; all had equal amounts of joy and pain. But he knew that Dean was beside him. That was something he could focus on without difficulty.

He had to imagine his own distractions.

What had happened to Anna? She said that she broken out of prison, but that was impossible when Heaven had such a clear agenda; but had she gone into a different variety of rebelling with her mission to kill Sam? Was she still under Heavens orders when she time travelled? Dean said that Michael had come and taken John Winchesters body and restored everything. But if the purpose was to kill Sam, and Anna had succeeded, why had he returned Sam back, whole and healthy, to his proper place in time?

But Michael had always been sympathetic to Lucifer. He would want to settle the score himself. Perhaps he wanted to preserve the chance of meeting his brother on fair grounds, each of them in their proper vessel. In fact, Castiel doubted that Michael would settle for less. Even if Michael went against the orders of Heaven, there wasn’t much anyone less than God could do about it. Michael did not care about the end of the world if it meant that he could see their brother again. Reckless abandon Castiel could not criticize.

It could have all been a charade to tempt Dean into saying the final ‘yes’. That had the clearest rings of truth to it. Lucifer had had his talk with Sam and now Michael had had his Dean. Both had proven just how real they were.

Dean flung an arm over Castiel’s shoulders, causing him to start.

“Cas, you need to relax. It looks like your going to burn a hole in the TV staring like that,” Dean said. He clapped Castiel on the shoulder twice and released him and it seemed like he was covering something up. For a moment, they had one another’s gazes. A corner of Dean’s mouth was quirked into a crooked smile and his eyes were warm; amused. Then he returned his attention to the television.

Castiel stared a moment longer, encroaching again on that unknown he felt when it came to Dean. Some feeling he sensed more and more but was still too distant to be in the full grasp of. This feeling made him do things that he shouldn’t and made it increasingly difficult to deny any of Dean’s requests. It was more than uncertainty; he was becoming well versed in the shades of that emotion. This was yet another thing. He turned to face the television again, hoping for a distraction. Because he knew that was the conventional definition of love, or in the very least, infatuation.

“Dean, I’m glad that it was you,” he confessed more abruptly that he’d intended. It came out as a realization. “For me; it had to be you. I couldn‘t have been…illuminated, like this, if it hadn‘t been you.”

Now he felt Dean looking at him though he listlessly returned his gaze towards the television before Castiel could make that awkward eye-contact that followed a statement like that. Dean likely assumed that Castiel was only speaking the way that he spoke; not that he’d purposefully formed his words in that order.

“Yeah…well, there are a few good things that have come out of this little unimportant life of mine, and good people that have come into it. I’ll die to protect them if I have to, no question about that. But I can’t shake the fact that if I hadn’t been born I wouldn’t of had any of those things or people to die for in the first place.”

Dean glanced over briefly and there was no hint of amusement. Perhaps he had caught drift of Castiel’s certainty and purposefulness of words.

Castiel hesitated before responding. He wanted to be eloquent. This was Dean’s apology for the night previous, as best as he’d ever offer one. But there were no eloquent words and no consolation. As an angel and more specifically a soldier, Castiel was not a philosopher. Like Dean, his thinking was stronger when it came to tactical problems. Emotional complications were out of his league. So he answered simply, repeating,

“For me, it had to be you.”


End file.
